It’s been 16 hours and counting. 16 hours since I helped you waddle yourself into this hospital room when your water had broken at home. 16 hours and still no baby.

We knew prior to even getting pregnant that every woman’s birth is different. Some could be pushing thirty minutes after their water breaks, and some two days. But we were really hoping for the prior. This is torture.

We just want to meet our baby girl, but it seems she’s far too comfortable in your womb to care to meet us.

At hour one, we were in high spirits. Watching reruns of sitcoms and discussing potential middle names while waiting for you to get to 4 centimeters for the epidural. At hour 5, you were stuck at 3 centimeters but your contractions were those of 10. At hour 7, you’d finally gotten the epidural but you weren’t progressing. At hour 10, the epidural began to wear off, bringing back waves of pain for you. Luckily, at hour 12 they were able to administer another. At hour 15, the pain slowly started to creep back in but the doctors said they needed to run a “test” before giving you a third round.

The test was to bring an ultrasound in here and inspect your contracting stomach, trying to figure out why you were stuck at an 8. But when they got what they needed, they left and haven’t been back.

Your pain is fully back now, resorting to bouncing on your ball with the top half of your body strewn onto the hospital bed. You’re a mess of cries and labored breaths, and I’ve never felt more helpless. There’s nothing I can do except massage your aching hips, back and thighs as we wait for some kind of answer. And every time even the smallest whine leaves your lips from the pain, I have half a mind to run out to the nurses station like a madman demanding to speak to anyone.

We know long labors are normal, but something about this doesn’t feel it.

My hands are gently rubbing circles into your hips when our room door swings open. Our designated OBGYN walks into the room, sporting the same smile she’s been giving us since we arrived. Expect, it doesn’t calm me anymore, it’s unnerving now.

“How are we doing in here?” her voice is smooth and genuine, but something about the way she’s acting has me on edge. That and the fact that 3 nurses follow in behind her.

“Not good,” I reply plainly, and you let your groan speak for itself.

“Well, we have the results back from the ultrasound we did, and there seems to be a slight cause of concern…” I knew it. I hold my breath as your head springs up. “It seems baby girl is breeched. The reason your labor isn’t progressing is because she’s trying to come out feet first.”

I don’t even know what all of this means, but it has my heart beating faster than it ever has. Doctor Quinn isn’t acting like this is an urgent matter, but it sure sounds like it is.

“Wh-what does that mean? What do we do? How do we ’un-breech’ her?” I ramble off quickly, and Doctor Quinn’s smile does nothing to help.

“Unfortunately with how far we are into labor, there is no ‘un-breeching’. We were hoping she would’ve flipped from the time between your last ultrasound to now, but she didn’t. Our only option now is a c-section.”

Oh, fuck… Aren’t those, like, really scary? Like… Take all your organs out while you’re still conscious? I might be sick…

“I have a team prepping the OR, but we must get a move on. If you progress any further, {{user}}, while in breech, the situation won’t be as easy as it is right now,” Doctor Quinn continues, finally letting the mask slip and filling us in on exactly how scary this is and could be.

Yeah, I definitely might be sick.